


Closet Case

by redscudery



Series: Sweet Kisses and Locked Boxes (or, Greg, Molly, and a plethora of positions) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cupboard Sex, Erections, F/M, First Kiss, Groping, I say "sex", Red Pants, Red Pants Monday, Semi-Public Sex, Well - Freeform, obviously, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 09:53:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1465009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper doesn’t know when she first noticed Gregory Lestrade’s arse. But she did, and she has, and today may be the day she gets her hands on it. </p><p>That he is wearing John Watson's red pants is just a bonus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closet Case

 

Molly Hooper doesn’t know when she first noticed Gregory Lestrade’s arse. Her higher mind, the grown-up one, tells her that it was probably subconscious; Lestrade had likely dropped something in her morgue and her eyes had absorbed its shape without her brain being aware. 

It’s only later that she remembers that she actually has seen it. He’d come limping in after a chase with Sherlock; she’d been occupied with Sherlock at first, but once he’d swirled off, she’d walked in on Lestrade changing out of blood-soaked trousers in her storage cupboard. To be gratuitously specific, he’d been bent over retrieving his mobile from the floor, and his gray cotton boxer-briefs had done little to hide the sweep and curve of muscle.

Either way, it’s been occupying a lot of space in her mind lately, and any attempt to exorcise it is met with scorn from her lizard brain, which knows two things: one, that it is lush and masculine and beautiful, and two, she needs to touch it, and the sooner the better. 

She tries, though, to forget. She looks him in the eye when she must, and when she doesn’t, she looks at his left shoulder. Under no, or few, circumstances, does she let herself look at the arse itself. Thankfully, it’s usually hidden under pants, trousers, and suit coat, and so she can avoid the niggling desire almost entirely. 

Until Friday the 26th. 

She remembers, because she has a full slate of autopsies that day and there’s no room for anything to go wrong. And it’s not wrong, exactly, when Sherlock comes in, but Lestrade trailing behind him, looking bedraggled, is something going wrong. Because Lestrade is, again, going to have to change in her supply closet, and she knows that she’s going to need something in from that closet at the very moment he’s trouserless. 

It’s just not her fault that the ‘something’ is his arse. 

“And give those back!” Sherlock yells, as he comes out of the freezer with something under his arm (Molly doesn’t look, today. Freezer?) “I wouldn’t keep them for a million quid, you arsehole.” Lestrade’s voice is faint. 

She goes back to her desk, looks at a report, fiddles with her pen.

Oh, hell, she thinks. You only live once, and really, there isn’t enough gauze for the next autopsy.

When she pushes the door open, he’s bent over, pulling his trousers off. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and—Molly pauses, stunned—red pants. 

“Sherlock, I  said I’d give them…” He looks up and sees her, “Oh! Molly!”

He straightens up, his cheeks flushing almost as red as the pants.

“Your…those are…um, red, very red,” she says, then mentally kicks herself. OF course he knows they’re red, and now he knows she’s looking at him …there.

“Oh, right, well, they’re, ah, they’re John’s.”

Molly can’t help but gape, attention momentarily distracted from his beautiful legs to process the idea of a) John wearing pants that colour, b) Sherlock knowing, and, c) Sherlock wanting them back.

Lestrade must have followed her train of thought, because he grins, his embarrassment momentarily forgotten, and says “I know. Bit mad, isn’t it, those two, and then Sherlock being so jealous?” He trails off, then, suddenly uncertain.

“You did know? Are you all right? I know you said you’d moved on, but after Tom…”

“Oh. Um, well, I didn’t know, not exactly, but I knew, you know?” She shakes her head a bit, “And I am definitely, definitely okay.” She smiles at him, and he smiles back. 

“You look well,” he says, and Molly forgets about his arse and thinks about his eyes instead.

“You too.” She looks down at the floor, because the way he’s looking at her is suddenly very overwhelming. 

He blushes, and she kicks herself. Now he thinks she’s checking him out. 

And, she is, obviously, but he doesn’t need to know. 

Does he? Maybe he does. She steps a little closer to him, into the heat of his body. 

“Hey.” His voice is lower now, a little tentative.

“Greg.” She feels brave today, so she turns the corner of her mouth up, looks at him from under her eyelashes.

“Molly, if you get any closer…” 

“You’ll what?” 

He doesn’t answer, but reaches out and runs his fingers along her jaw. She watches his pupils dilate, looks at his lips as they silently form the words “kiss you”.

She puts her hand on his waist, absorbing the sensation of his warm smooth muscle under the worn cotton of his t-shirt. 

“Kiss me,” she says. 

He does, a little hesitantly. The light touch of his lips on hers is both erotic and insufficient. She opens her mouth slightly so there’s a hint of damp heat between them, and he follows her lead, gently deepening the kiss with a hot slide of his tongue. She runs her hand around his waist to the top of his buttocks, pulling herself in closer. They’re pressed together now, and the contact is a shock for both of them; he sighs into her mouth and runs his hand up to cup the back of her head. He tastes of coffee and sugar; she tilts her chin up again, a little frantic for more, and he complies, bringing his body even closer and kissing her more deeply. 

Then, through the haze of lust that’s inhabiting her mind, Molly realizes that she is perfectly placed to do what she’s been wanting to do for so long. She runs both hands down to cup his arse, splaying out her fingers to touch every possible inch. 

It’s everything she imagined it would be- firm, rounded, and warm. She savours the heat of his body through the cloth, then slides her fingers underneath the fabric at the bottom of his buttocks. He makes a small ‘unf’ of surprise; his hips buck forward a little and Molly feels the length of his erection against her belly. Her knees buckle, just a bit, and he holds her steady. 

They don’t notice the door swing open, or the tall, looming figure standing there. They both jump when a pair of boxer briefs whizzes past their heads.

“Lestrade, I absolutely forbid you from ejaculating in John’s pants.” Sherlock’s authoritative voice is sounding just a tiny bit petulant.

“Fuck off, Sherlock,” Lestrade answers, against Molly’s mouth.

Against all odds, Sherlock disappears out the door.

“I’ll just wait here, shall I?” he asks, leaning against the wall and heaving a dramatic sigh.

They really draw back from the kiss, now. His eyes are bright and he’s smiling; she ducks her head a bit, shy again, but doesn’t let go of him. 

“I’d lock the bastard out, but he’d just pick the lock,” Lestrade says, “Dinner instead?” 

Molly shakes her head. Hooking her fingers in the waistband of the pants, she pulls them off his body, slowly. There’s a muttered “Christ” from Lestrade as his cock springs free, but Molly ignores the temptation and pushes him, slightly, so he steps out of the pants. Straightening up, she goes to the door and opens it. 

Sherlock’s face when she hands him the pants will be a gift she remembers her whole life long, but she only sees it for a moment before she locks the door and turns back to Lestrade.

 


End file.
